Defender of the Crown
by samvimes
Summary: A death in Psuedopolis, a messenger to Ankh-Morpork, and an offer Sam Vimes can neither refuse nor accept...
1. Default Chapter

Good day, gentle readers...  
  
I first posted this story at Skyehawke but, finding myself required to   
  
re-post it there, I recalled that I had not posted it at ff.net yet. So,  
  
here it is :)  
  
I'm afraid this little trip into Discworld politics is rather improbable,   
  
but one of the charms of fanfiction is taking the improbable and making   
  
it work. Please, feel free to let me know how well I've done, gentle  
  
readers.   
  
Kind thanks to Mary and Lunar for their betas.   
  
Yes, and of course, Night Watch spoilers. Caveat lector.  
  
Defender of the Crown  
  
ch. 1  
  
"Monarchies who have found themselves bereft of a convenient monarch   
  
have...obtained one. Some suitably born member of some other royal   
  
line. After all, what is required is someone who, uh, knows the ropes,   
  
as I believe the saying goes."  
  
"Sorry? Are you saying we send out for a king?"   
  
-- Feet of Clay  
  
The gates of the city of Ankh-Morpork used to be formidable masses of   
  
solid hardwood, meant to withstand siege, attack, panic, riot, and any   
  
number of natural disasters. They had huge heavy bars that could be   
  
dropped across them, like something out of a B-grade monster movie, of   
  
the kind where a giant anthropoid terrorizes the natives into offerings   
  
of fruit, meat, and blond virgins.  
  
Fortunately, Ankh-Morpork's brush with moving pictures had been brief,   
  
and the biggest anthropoid around was the Librarian, who lived /in/ the   
  
city and only terrorized the pub owners into offerings of peanuts and a   
  
free drink now and then. The city gates hadn't been locked shut for   
  
years. Some of them hadn't been closed at all. It was so hard for   
  
tourists and merchants to get into the city, if you locked them out.  
  
Under the rule of the current Patrician, all arts, trades, and species   
  
were welcome in Ankh-Morpork. If you hadn't got any money to buy with,   
  
he reasoned, you almost certainly had something to sell.   
  
It seemed like this Vetinari fellow had the right end of the stick,   
  
thought Wright, as he passed under the arching stonework of the   
  
Hubwards Gate. If you tried to stop people doing things, he'd   
  
discovered, it all got very complicated very fast. Whereas, if you let   
  
people do whatever they wanted, and then very gently told them what   
  
that was, the world became ringingly simple. It had always worked for   
  
him, anyhow.   
  
Wright was a diplomat by education but a politician by nature, and he   
  
approved of anything which simplified the political process.   
  
In his mind, Wright had arranged thousands of revolutions, fought   
  
hundreds of battles, and appointed many rulers -- Patricians, Kings,   
  
Seriphs, Tyrants, the lot of them. Usually, as soon as he'd crowned a   
  
new imaginary king, he began looking for ways to dethrone him. It was a   
  
hobby that helped while away the long hours at official luncheons. In   
  
reality, his job was to make sure, as Havelock Vetinari did -- albeit  
  
on a smaller scale than the Patrician -- that today was pretty much   
  
like yesterday.  
  
Most of the recent todays had been frighteningly unusual, and not at   
  
all like the yesterdays you used to get in the, er, good old days.   
  
His home, Pseudopolis, was a ship at sea without a captain, sail, or   
  
even anyone who knew what the pointy end was called. Because of the   
  
damned clacks towers, most of the Disc already knew this, and the sort   
  
of people flocking to the city were exactly the kind that Wright didn't   
  
want there, because they Made Trouble.   
  
Most of them were coming from Ankh-Morpork.  
  
He didn't fancy his city in chaos. So, he'd gone to the senior   
  
officials. They were nothing as organized as the heads of guilds, since   
  
Pseudopolis didn't have many guilds, at least not as many as Ankh-  
  
Morpork. He'd gone and gotten permission to come here, and find  
  
someone who could possibly stop the madness.   
  
"This is the city, boss," said the young man riding next to him, in a   
  
hesitant sort of way.  
  
"Aye. Ankh-Morpork. Get a good look, lads," he answered, apparently to   
  
the empty darkness behind him. "We won't be here long. Spread out. Act   
  
like tourists. Buy some naughty postcards, I hear they go cheap in the   
  
big city. Have a few beers. Don't ask any questions. Just listen, very   
  
hard."  
  
"Yassir," said the lad on the horse next to him.   
  
"Colter, pick up the information as it comes in and report to me as   
  
discussed," Wright continued. "And now, lads, I'd better be on my way."   
  
He walked his horse onward, carefully ignoring the shadows that crept   
  
along behind him. When the lad Colter stopped, he continued, until he   
  
was out of sight.  
  
Wright had memorized select parts of a dodgy map of Ankh-Morpork that   
  
one of the Sammies in Psuedopolis had brought with him as a souvenier.   
  
There was a Sammie assisting Commander Rater, who was nominally in   
  
charge of what passed for law in Psuedopolis right now, and another   
  
one riding hard on the road to Uberwald, to speak with the Low King,   
  
who was worried that the Pseudopolis-Schmaltzberg trade agreement   
  
might go sour.   
  
It was barely light by the time he'd stabled his horse at the inn, and   
  
walked casually towards the Watch House. It was, he thought with a   
  
smile, called Pseudopolis Yard. He hoped it was an omen of good things   
  
to come.  
  
***  
  
Sam Vimes -- Duke, Knight, Watch Commander, and paranoid bastard -- was   
  
halfway through a cigar, and two-thirds of the way through an amusing   
  
letter from the Ankh-Morpork Citizens' League, regarding his allowing a   
  
troll to patrol the streets of Decent Neighborhoods, when Carrot   
  
knocked politely.  
  
"Sir?" Carrot said, leaning in the doorway. "We're being watched, sir."  
  
"I know," said Vimes, without looking up. "Saw him as I was coming in   
  
this morning. Any pigeons for me?"  
  
Carrot looked surprised. "Er...yes. Three." He held out a handful of   
  
tiny paper slips. Vimes read them, one by one.  
  
"I've been trying to bore him into showing himself," the Commander   
  
continued. "I've been sitting up here for three hours, and I'm   
  
getting bored too. If he's going to try to kill me, I wish he'd make   
  
the effort and get it over with. But..." he tossed one of the slips   
  
into an overflowing litter bin, "He's not an Assassin. Not a thief. Nor   
  
is he a...freelance agent from the Shades*."   
  
---  
  
* There were a good many freelance agents in the Shades, who would   
  
freely do just about anything, if the price was right.  
  
---  
  
"Might be an out-of-towner, sir."  
  
"I'll just nip out the back way and see what he wants," Vimes said.   
  
"Care for a bit of fresh air, Captain?"  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
"Round up a couple of the lads, and we'll have some fun."  
  
***  
  
Wright sighed and leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The   
  
damp of the city was already getting on his nerves.   
  
He'd seen plenty of people going in and out of Pseudopolis Yard since   
  
early that morning. There were swarms of dwarves, but he didn't need a   
  
dwarf; also a handful of trolls, but he didn't need a troll, either. A   
  
young woman with long ash-blond hair caught his eye, but only because   
  
he was male and still breathing. And there was a big strapping bloke,   
  
with bright red hair, who /looked/ the part, but also looked far too   
  
young for Wright's purposes.   
  
There were other humans, too, and that was where it got difficult. Some   
  
of them seemed old enough, but not, well, not right. One old bugger had   
  
fit the description, but he couldn't be it. He was dressed like a common   
  
Watchman, who just happened to have bought a nice pair of boots.   
  
A fat man with a mug of coffee stepped out onto the front stoop. He   
  
/mustn't/ be the one. If he is, Wright thought, I'm sunk.  
  
He watched as a youngish corporal, with polished helmet and shined   
  
boots, walked past.  
  
"All right, Ping?" the fat one asked.  
  
"All right, sir," the one called Ping replied. "It's a good morning to   
  
be a copper, sarge."  
  
"How d'ye figure?" A sergeant, Wright could see his stripes now. That   
  
ruled him out.  
  
"Nobody's breaking the law," Ping replied. Wright stifled a snort of   
  
laughter.  
  
"Yet," said the sergeant, and pointed with his mug.   
  
Wright turned just in time to see the old bugger and the strapping   
  
bloke emerge from the house next door to the Yard -- how clever! -- and   
  
nick the young man that Wright had paid to stand in an obvious place   
  
and do an obvious spy job.   
  
Clever, Ankh-Morpork, but not clever enough --   
  
He didn't turn fast enough to see the two corporals who nicked him,   
  
because they knocked him out before he had a chance. They weren't very   
  
clever, but they were very good at following orders.  
  
***  
  
"I din't know nuffin! I swears!"  
  
Carrot was not a terrifying man, when it came to interrogation. He   
  
would have been offended to be called such. He just sat there, and   
  
smiled, and made sure there wasn't anything else the suspect wanted to   
  
tell him? No? Was he sure? Oh, perhaps there was?  
  
It was the way the muscles bunched under his sleeves. And the smile.   
  
There was something dangerous about a man with a smile as honest as   
  
Carrot's.   
  
"Are you sure, Legsy?" Carrot asked, still smiling. "You don't remember   
  
a name, maybe?"  
  
"E jus' give me a dollar an' said to watch the Yard! An just sit tight   
  
if'n I were nicked! I tol' him it warnt any good!"  
  
Vimes leaned against the back wall. Good Cop/Bad Cop was even better,   
  
he thought, when the Good Cop -- i.e., Carrot -- was also Bad.  
  
"D'you know who I am?" he asked Legsy Biffler, who was not enjoying his   
  
stay with the Watch.  
  
"Yessir," Legsy muttered. "Duke Vimes, sir."  
  
"I'm /Commander/ of the City Watch, Legsy," Vimes said, moving forward.   
  
He put his hands on the table. "I am, as you might say, the last court   
  
of appeal before the Patrician." Legsy's eyes were rolling. "Have you   
  
ever met the Patrician?"  
  
"Nossir."  
  
"He takes a very dim view of me having small fry like you up before   
  
him. It's a waste of time. The Patrician's time is very valuable. When   
  
it's wasted, he tends to take it out on the people standing in front of   
  
him. Like you," Vimes finished brightly.   
  
"I din't know nuffin!" Legsy shrieked. "E just paid me!"  
  
Vimes narrowed his eyes. "He's not from around the city, is he?"  
  
"Never seen 'im before!" Legsy's voice rose an octave. "Ad an accent!"  
  
"Oh? Did he? What else are you holding out?" Vimes shouted. He liked   
  
shouting. You knew where you were, when you shouted. At the center of   
  
terrified attention, usually.  
  
"Nuffin, I swears!"  
  
"What accent?"  
  
"Dunno!"  
  
"Klatchian? Genua? Ramtops?"  
  
"Dunnosir!"  
  
There was a tap at the door. Vimes sighed.  
  
"I told Cheery to tap when the other one came round. Looks like he'll   
  
just have to answer my questions himself. Carrot, take Legsy down and   
  
discharge him. Do him for loitering, fine him a dollar. I'll go see to   
  
our mysterious foreign friend."  
  
The corporals, while good lads, had been a little too enthusiastic   
  
about arresting the Watch-House spy, and the man had been unconscious   
  
for almost an hour. Now he was sitting up in the cell, rubbing his head   
  
and scowling. Vimes saw him reach for a pocket.  
  
"We took anything that might get you out, including daggers and   
  
lock-picks," said Vimes, standing on the other side of the bars. "Looks   
  
like Going Prepared for Burglary ought to be on the list somewhere,   
  
right after Irritating The Watch and Being A Bloody Nusiance."   
  
The man, who had been feeling his pockets, gave him a relieved smile.   
  
"It's all right," he said. "Look, I can explain. It's nothing but a   
  
misunderstanding."  
  
"Well, my understanding is that you were paying one man to be the   
  
obvious spy, while you did the real work. Now, while there are certain   
  
criminal types in the Watch, we normally don't stir up anyone enough   
  
that we get spies. Usually it's just outright Assassins."  
  
"I'm not an Assassin!" the man said, aghast.  
  
"I know," said Vimes. "I checked. You're not from our fair city, are   
  
you? I recognize the accent, even if good old Legsy didn't.   
  
Pseudopolis? Maybe one of the outlying areas?"  
  
The man shut his mouth. Vimes' eyes glittered. "There are worse ways to   
  
extract information than a Watchman talking at you," he said.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like a Watchman /thumping/ you again!" yelled Vimes. "Ye gods!"  
  
The man sighed. "I'm a Watchman too." he said. "Shouting doesn't   
  
frighten me."  
  
"What nick?"  
  
"Pseudopolis proper, Headquarters. Captain Dick Wright. I'm here on   
  
official business." The so-called Captain reached behind him --   
  
"Hands where I can see them," Vimes snapped.  
  
"I need to show you something your men missed," Self-Proclaimed-  
  
Captain Wright said slowly. "I'm carrying a message from the head of   
  
the Pseudopolis Watch to your Commander. Whom I demand to see," he   
  
added.  
  
"You want to see the Commander?" asked Vimes. "Why?"  
  
He let Wright remove a small ivory-colored letter from a hidden   
  
pocket under his arm. It had a large wax seal on it.  
  
"Let's have it, then," Vimes said, holding out a hand.   
  
Wright shook his head. "Commander's eyes only," he said. "I have   
  
orders to deliver it into Duke Vimes' hands and no other."   
  
Vimes could see that the impression on the wax seal was that of a Watch   
  
badge.  
  
"There are three men, trained by Ankh-Morpork Watch, in Pseudopolis,"   
  
Vimes growled. "I could have an answer back by clacks within an hour,   
  
whether or not a Captain Wright has been sent to Ankh-Morpork. I hold   
  
all the cards, Captain."  
  
"I outrank you!" the horrible man tried shouting back at him. He   
  
grinned.  
  
"Are you sure of that?" he asked. "You may consider my eyes to be   
  
Mister Vimes', and my hands to be his hands. Now let's have the letter,   
  
or you rot down here at the pleasure of the Duke. And he is not,   
  
generally, a happy man. So you can either give it to me voluntarily, or   
  
I can have a troll come down here and take it from you. And if it gets   
  
damaged in process...the Duke will definitely not be pleased."  
  
He saw Wright's internal battle. He saw the man thinking, hard. He saw   
  
the letter --  
  
"That's for the Duke!" Wright shouted, when Vimes' hand snaked through   
  
the bars and took it, deftly, from his fingers. "His Grace will be   
  
/very angry/ when he finds out you've read it!"  
  
"Thank you for the warning," Vimes said gravely.  
  
***  
  
This was not being a good day for Pseudopolis City Watch Captain Dick   
  
Wright.  
  
He'd been knocked unconscious, and it felt like he'd been rolled down   
  
the stairs before being thrown into this cell. They'd taken his tools   
  
and weapons and Colter had his badge. He was in a chilly basement, and   
  
beyond the bars he could see a strange man, who'd introduced himself as   
  
'Igor', doing various frightening experiments. There was a glass tank   
  
with eyeballs growing on vines in it. And now they'd taken the   
  
letter...  
  
Wright watched in horror as the Old Bugger examined the wax seal.   
  
Watchmen were gossips, and if this man read it, if he told anyone its   
  
contents, his position would be badly compromised.  
  
The man didn't wear rank stripes; his armour was dented and old. He   
  
looked strong but stringy, as though he'd spent most of his life doing   
  
too much running without enough hot meals (Wright knew the feeling; all   
  
Watchmen worth their pay did). There was a scar crossing his right eye,   
  
and several more on his arms and legs. Probably a rank-happy corporal   
  
who'd never make sergeant. And this...this stupid NCO was going to ruin   
  
everything.  
  
/Colter, where are you?/ he thought. The lad should have noticed the   
  
trouble by now, and should be upstairs making a --   
  
There was the sound of Colter's raised voice. Thank the gods. Old   
  
Bugger glanced up the stairs, sniffed, and glanced back down at the   
  
letter.   
  
"That's my aide upstairs, he can verify who I am," Wright snapped. "I'm   
  
warning you not to read that letter!"  
  
"I'll brave your wrath," the man said, and slit the seal. Wright   
  
watched in horror and anger as he scanned the contents of the letter.   
  
At least his lips didn't move. He might be bright enough to realize how   
  
much cacky he'd just climbed into, and keep his mouth shut.  
  
Old Bugger's jaw dropped. "This is from your commander in Pseudopolis?"   
  
he demanded.  
  
"Now you see!" said Wright triumphantly.  
  
"If this is a fake, you'd better come clean."  
  
"Check the signatures if you don't believe me! That's Commander Rater's   
  
badge on the seal!"  
  
"Number twelve-twenty, I saw," he said. He looked up at Wright, then at   
  
the stairs, where Colter's shouts could still be heard. "Why didn't   
  
Rater come himself?"  
  
"He trusted me to deliver it. I'm a relative of Mr. Vimes," Wright   
  
growled. "He's going to go /spare/ when I tell him about this!"  
  
"Yes, I daresay," Old Bugger answered, but the smugness had drained   
  
from his voice. He looked like a man who was on the verge of either   
  
bursting into tears or laying a punch on someone. Wright suspected the   
  
latter. "PING!" Old Bugger shouted, up the stairs.  
  
"YESSIR?" the reply drifted down. The corporal from earlier appeared   
  
at the top of the stairwell.  
  
"Find the young man who's shouting at everyone and put him in the   
  
office. Get someone down to release Captain Wright, and send him up   
  
too. They're Watchmen, so no tripping 'em or handcuffs or anything."   
  
Old Bugger stuffed the letter under his breastplate. "I apologize for   
  
your treatment, Captain. This letter will be on Mr. Vimes' desk shortly,   
  
and you will have the opportunity to register your complaint with him   
  
personally. In the meantime, thank you for your co-operation."  
  
"I'll have you broken back down to Lance-Constable for this!" Wright   
  
said, not at all appeased.  
  
"I doubt it, but it'll be fun to see you try." Old Bugger ran up the   
  
stairs, two at a time. At the top, he passed a tall, thick bodied --   
  
Wright had heard they'd got a golem in the AMCW, but he'd never   
  
believed it until now.  
  
"I Am To Release You," said the golem, ponderously. "There Will Be No   
  
Funny Business."  
  
"None at all," said Wright, weakly, as Dorfl's seven-foot ceramic   
  
figure blocked out the light.  
  
*** 


	2. chapter 2

Defender of the Crown  
  
ch. 2  
  
He'd done his duty. He'd brought back heaps of spoils, lots of   
  
captives and, almost uniquely among Ankh-Morpork's military leaders,   
  
most of his men. Vimes suspected that this last fact was one reason   
  
why history didn't approve. There was a suggestion that this was,   
  
in some way, not playing fair.  
  
-- Jingo  
  
Sam Vimes walked into the canteen, watching from the doorway as Ping   
  
and Visit escorted the Captain's aide up the stairs to his office. He   
  
sat down on the battered old couch in one corner, and scanned the   
  
letter again.  
  
Pseudopolis was a mess. He knew that. The king only had one son, and no   
  
handy cousins or aunts or anything. Then the old king of Pseudopolis   
  
had died, and the son had gotten drunk at the funeral and fallen in the   
  
lake and drowned.   
  
Oh, there were plenty of little lords in Pseudopolis, and big lords too   
  
if it came to that, but none of them were worth the spit-shine on their   
  
shoes. Now all the nobs were fighting about who ought to be king, and   
  
the dwarves in Pseudopolis were inches (ha!) from declaring it the   
  
domain of Rhys Rhysson, Low King of the Dwarves, by reason of 'I said   
  
so' supported by the old legal precedent 'I've got a sharp axe'.   
  
A couple dozen outlaws had poured into the city to challenge everyone   
  
to a trial by arms for the title. The Watch Commander must be right up   
  
against it, Vimes had thought, and had sent a clacks with offers of   
  
assistance. There were three Sammies -- relatively honest, trustworthy   
  
Watchmen trained in Ankh-Morpork -- in the PCW, and they were   
  
apparently doing what they could to keep order.  
  
Now he knew why Commander Rater hadn't clacksed back. He had a letter   
  
that had to be delivered in person. This letter. Vimes stared at it in   
  
outright amazement.  
  
"Mister Vimes?"   
  
Vimes looked around. Carrot was standing nearby. He seemed worried.  
  
"You look ill, sir," said Carrot.   
  
"I feel ill," Vimes muttered. He heard Dorfl's ceramic feet clumping up   
  
the stairs to his office, then back down.   
  
"Come along, Carrot. You don't want to miss seeing this," he said.   
  
***  
  
"We seen you get nicked, and I thought, well, better safe than sorry,   
  
so I nipped up to the Patrician's Palace. He didn't want to see me, I   
  
can tell you that," Colter said, as soon as the golem left them alone   
  
in Commander Vimes' office. Wright nodded as the lad spoke. "Had to   
  
show your badge to even get the letter through. Here it is back, by   
  
the way, sir. Anyhow, I managed it, an' the Patrician come out a   
  
minute later an' said thank you, he'll look into it. So I run back   
  
here to get you out. That was all right, wasn't it?" he asked.  
  
"Right as it could be. Even if the Duke's as rotten as the rest of   
  
them, he's got to be better than the Pseudopolis lords. One of the   
  
Watchmen took my letter, so we can't expect it'll be under wraps   
  
much longer."  
  
"This is a bit of a mess, all things considered," Colter said, looking   
  
around the room. The fireplace needed cleaning, and the desk was piled   
  
high with drifts of paperwork. An empty cigar packet stuck out from   
  
under one of them. A white mug with green dancing dragons on it read   
  
"I Gave At The Sunshine Sanctuary", and was filled with what looked   
  
like two-day-old tea.  
  
"Lady Sybil's mad for dragons," Wright said, pointing to the mug. "We   
  
get a Hogswatch letter from her every year. Usually it's about Duke   
  
Vimes, and dragons."  
  
"I had one o'them, when I were small," Colter said.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"No better pet for a lad. The explosion was really spectacular."   
  
Colter's eyes danced at the memory.  
  
"You didn't -- "  
  
"Nah. It got sick. But if a pet's got to die, boss, at least it can   
  
give a bit of entertainment doing it. Here, if your mum's the sister of   
  
a Duke, what does that make you?"  
  
"Unlucky enough to come up with this assignment," Wright sighed. "And   
  
it's not sister, it's aunt. In-law."  
  
Both men stood up as the door opened. It was the Old Bugger from   
  
before.  
  
"Sorry to keep you waiting," the man said, crossing to the desk. The   
  
tall strapping bloke came in behind him. "This is Captain Carrot   
  
Ironfoundersson."  
  
"Captain Wright," Carrot saluted.   
  
"You again," Wright said sullenly. The Old Bugger smiled thinly.  
  
"Who's your brave defender?" he asked, indicating Colter.  
  
"Constable Mikey Colter," the boy said, saluting. The Old Bugger took  
  
a silver cigar case out of his pocket, lit a cigar, and sat himself   
  
behind the desk. Little alarm bells finally began to sound in Wright's   
  
head.  
  
Of course. The shiny, expensive boots --   
  
"Yes, I'm Vimes," said the Old Bugger, when he saw Wright's expression.   
  
"I expect you haven't seen a recent iconograph. Our Carrot's mad for   
  
picture-taking, but he knows I don't like it much."  
  
Wright's brain ceased to function. This man, whom he'd been threatening   
  
and swearing at --   
  
"I admire your devotion to duty," Vimes continued. He set the letter   
  
from the city leaders very carefully on the desk before him. "Better to   
  
make a fool of yourself in ignorance, Captain, than when you're in   
  
possession of all the facts. You really did rather well, given the   
  
circumstances."  
  
"You tricked me!" Wright said, then suppressed the urge to clap his   
  
hands over his mouth. This was the Duke of Ankh, and a ranking officer.   
  
"I do that, sometimes," Vimes said calmly. "Specially when I'm being   
  
spied on. Why were you watching my Yard?"  
  
Colter nudged the shocked Wright in the ribs. "I...I was under   
  
orders..." Wright began, then stopped himself and started over. "Before   
  
we delivered the letters, we were supposed to find out how you ran the   
  
Watch. Whether you were really..." He stopped. "Erm, really -- "  
  
" -- worthy?" Vimes asked.  
  
"Something like that. Sir," he added, belatedly.   
  
"And I jumped your game."  
  
"You're very observant, Your Grace."  
  
"Yes, I am. Now, what's this about letters? More than one?"  
  
Wright opened his mouth to reply, but there was a knock at the door,  
  
and Fred Colon, at Vimes' bidding, put his head inside.  
  
"Lady Sybil's downstairs with young Sam, sir," he said. "And...and  
  
Lord Vetinari, too."  
  
"Vetinari? Here?"  
  
"He never comes here," Colon supplied, nervously.  
  
"I don't think he ever has. Blast." Vimes stood. "Did he say why?"  
  
"No, sir." Colon looked anxious. "He's...well, he seems like he's   
  
smiling, sir."  
  
"Well." Vimes looked from Colon to Wright, and back. "I expect Sybil's   
  
here for our early lunch, and I expect Vetinari is here because you   
  
are, Captain Wright. Send them up, Fred."  
  
"He's smiling, sir," Colon repeated. "That's worse than when /you/   
  
smile, sir."  
  
"I know, Fred. Just tell them to come up."  
  
Colon saluted, worriedly, and they heard him thumping down the stairs.   
  
"I didn't know it was you, sir," Wright said reproachfully.  
  
"I didn't know you were a Captain, but it didn't stop me arresting   
  
you," Vimes returned. He looked down at the letter. "Good gods, man, do   
  
you know how many people want me dead? And you really want -- " he   
  
shook the letter.  
  
"Hello, Sam," said Lady Sybil, not bothering to knock as she entered,   
  
carrying their son. She smiled absently at the pair of Watchmen in the  
  
seats in front of the desk; the smile broadened when she saw who they  
  
were. "Dickie?" she asked. "Dickie Wright, is that you?"  
  
Wright glanced at Vimes, expecting the man to laugh. Instead, he saw   
  
only grave sympathy.  
  
"Hullo, Sybil," Wright said, with a sigh.   
  
"What on the Disc are you doing here? And a Captain now!" Sybil swooped   
  
down on him, as only she could have done. "How long has it been?"  
  
"Six years, I think," Wright answered. "I was going to come by...oh,   
  
that's the baby, is it? He looks like grandfather, doesn't he?"  
  
"I assume these are the troublemakers," said a voice behind them.   
  
Havelock Vetinari stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane. A faint   
  
smile curved his lips. "We meet again, Constable Colter."  
  
"Sir," Colter stood and saluted, smartly.  
  
"And Captain Wright, I presume." Vetinari entered the room, glancing   
  
around. "Yes, this is correct," he said, with a satisfied look. "Your   
  
office is precisely as I imagined it, Sir Samuel."  
  
Colter stepped away from his chair, offering it to Vetinari; the   
  
Patrician nodded at the youngster, and sat gracefully, resting his   
  
hands on the head of his cane.  
  
"Are you here on business?" Sybil was asking. Wright nodded. "You must   
  
come up to dinner! Where are you staying?"  
  
"Sybil, dear?" Vimes said distantly.  
  
"Yes, Sam?"  
  
"I think Mr. Wright and I had better sort a few things out, before we   
  
see each other socially."  
  
"Of course," Sybil said. "All kinds of Watch business, I expect. Shall   
  
I go?"  
  
Vetinari smiled ever so slightly. "I think the Duchess would enjoy   
  
staying, don't you, Sir Samuel?"  
  
Vetinari knew. Vimes didn't know how, but he suspected the 'other letter'  
  
had something to do with it.   
  
"You might as well stay, Sybil," Vimes muttered. He held out the letter   
  
to Carrot, who had taken up a position at the Patrician's right. Colter   
  
stood behind his Captain.   
  
"Read it," he ordered.  
  
"To his Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-  
  
Morpork City Watch," Carrot read, laboriously.   
  
"That's me," Vimes said to Wright, who glowered.  
  
"'The citizens of the city of Pseudopolis greet and salute you, Your   
  
Grace Vimes. We have sent this letter with our Captain of the Watch, to   
  
be delivered to you in the utmost confiden...tiality.'" Carrot looked   
  
up.   
  
"Keep reading, Captain," Vimes said. Sybil looked curious.  
  
"'The City of Pseudopolis begs your assistance and the assistance of   
  
your wise Patrician, Lord The Honorable Havelock Vetinari --' "  
  
" -- they flatter -- " the Patrician murmured.  
  
" '-- in our time of crisis. The city, without leadership, has been   
  
thrust into chaos. Pseudopolis has no royal family to fall upon after   
  
the death of the king and the regrettable accident leading to the   
  
demise of his son.'"  
  
"Didn't he fall in a lake?" Sybil asked.  
  
"'We would offer you the crown --' oh, Mister Vimes." Carrot broke off   
  
abruptly. Sybil put a hand to her mouth. Not a muscle twitched in   
  
Vetinari's face.  
  
"Go on, Carrot."  
  
"'We would offer you the crown and throne of Pseudopolis, with all   
  
royal rights and priviledges app...ur...'"  
  
"Appurtaining thereto," Vimes said, staring at Wright.  
  
"'Appurtaining thereto, in exchange for your residence in the Royal   
  
Palace and assumption of the throne and rule of Pseudopolis and its   
  
outlying counties. Your rights, as king, include legal right to   
  
make law and pass sentence, extensive hunting grounds outside of the   
  
city proper, command of the City Watch as is your custom, and the   
  
line of rule secured within your descent, on the majority of your   
  
son, the Viscount Samuel Vimes-Ramkin.' That's a nice touch,   
  
including young Sam, sir. 'We invest the bearer of this letter, Watch   
  
Captain Dickson Wright, full diplomatic power with your Patrician and   
  
authority to negotiate terms with your honored self, understanding   
  
that he is a relation to the family. We wait upon your reply with all   
  
due speed, Gods save the City. Your obdt. servants...' There's a lot   
  
of names, sir. Head of the Seamstresses, leading merchants, a couple   
  
of prominent lawyers. Also Commander Rater."  
  
"Now fancy that." Vimes stubbed out his cigar. "Full diplomatic power   
  
/and/ authority to negotiate terms. How exactly are we related, Captain   
  
Wright?"  
  
"Lady Sybil's my cousin," Wright said. He looked as though he'd like to  
  
hide. "I'm afraid I've made rather a cock-up of things, Your Grace."  
  
"Well, calling me that isn't going to make things any better," Vimes   
  
sighed.  
  
"I cannot remember when I've had a more enjoyable morning, personally,"   
  
Vetinari put in.   
  
"They want you to be /king/?" Sybil asked. "Have any of them ever /met/   
  
you?"  
  
"Thank you, dear," said Vimes, turning to Vetinari. "This is tradition,   
  
isn't it?" he asked. "When there aren't any nobs who're nobby enough to   
  
be king, you send out for one."  
  
"You are the highest peer in the city, Vimes," Vetinari said mildly.   
  
"It's a great honour to be asked, sir," Carrot said loyally. "They   
  
couldn't find a more deserving -- "   
  
" -- if you finish that sentence, Carrot, I'll start shouting," Vimes   
  
warned.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
The Commander stared at the desktop. Rater ought to know better.   
  
Offering him the crown of Pseudopolis! Didn't they have some poor sod   
  
in their own city they could pick on?   
  
Samuel Vimes was the descendent of a long line of very...well, very  
  
/independent/ thinkers. Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes, a dozen generations   
  
back, had led a revolution that ended the monarchy in Ankh-Morpork   
  
forever. Somewhere in his dark hindbrain, there was a holy hatred of   
  
nobility that not even his own promotion to Duke had lessened. Kings   
  
were Wrong. Royalty was why they invented axes, as far as he was   
  
concerned. At least the Patrician was a tyrant on equal terms. He never   
  
claimed he was right just because his dad had been Patrician before   
  
him*.  
  
---  
  
* In point of fact, Mad Lord Snapcase had been Patrician before   
  
Vetinari. Anyone claiming to be rightful Patrician by reason of descent   
  
from Snapcase would probably be chased out of the city, if Vetinari   
  
didn't get there first with a more permanent method of silencing him.   
  
---  
  
But, a small voice said, this is the Watch asking. Another city's   
  
Watch, though that's never mattered. He'd clacksed Rater offering his   
  
help, and Rater replied with an offer of his own.   
  
"I, of course, have really very little say in the matter," Vetinari was   
  
saying. "We would be sorry to see you go, Your Grace, but when duty   
  
calls, who am I to stand in the way? It is certainly a unique   
  
opportunity for you."  
  
"I could shout at you too," Vimes snarled. Vetinari returned his gaze   
  
evenly. Anyone who shouted at the Patrician would be too far gone to   
  
say anything coherent anyway.  
  
"Sam, please," Sybil reprimanded, gently. "I just got your son to   
  
sleep."  
  
"Perhaps it would be good to condition him to the shouting while he's   
  
still young," Vetinari said, without taking his eyes from Vimes.   
  
"I ought to accept this just for the pleasure of being able to invade   
  
Ankh-Morpork," said Vimes.  
  
"We always encourage tourism," Vetinari drawled, amiably. "I'm sure I   
  
could arrange some sort of 'welcome to the neighborhood' basket."  
  
"Gentlemen," Sybil warned. Both men looked at her.   
  
And this was the thing. Sybil was so well bred and so entirely   
  
good-natured that, like Carrot, she had a strange effect on people.   
  
Vimes, veteran of many a bare-knuckle street fight, was utterly   
  
helpless when she took that tone. Even Vetinari, who could stare down   
  
a crocodile, seemed to wilt slightly under her stern gaze.   
  
"I am sure that this can be sorted out without your presence,   
  
Havelock*," she continued. "I think we ought to let Sam and Dickie   
  
alone to discuss things, don't you?"  
  
---  
  
* Sybil's authority over the Patrician could, in part, be attributed   
  
to the fact that she still called him by his first name. It brings a   
  
man named Havelock down, to be reminded of it.  
  
---  
  
Carrot looked to Vimes, almost imperceptibly. He nodded to the Captain,   
  
at the same time that Wright, slightly more noticeably, nodded at   
  
Colter. Sybil suppressed a laugh, which jostled young Sam, who began to   
  
wail.  
  
"His father's son, no doubt," Vetinari said, rising. "I await your   
  
decision with great interest, Commander."  
  
"Don't be ill-mannered, Sam," Sybil warned as she swept past, Carrot   
  
and Colter trailing in her considerable wake. Vetinari shut the door  
  
behind him silently as he followed.  
  
"You just threatened the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork," Wright said, when   
  
the door had shut behind them. "/Twice/. Are you sure you're not daft?"  
  
"From what I've seen of kings, young man, insanity would only increase   
  
my qualifications," Vimes snapped. "You do know I'm descendent from a   
  
regicide, don't you?"  
  
"Most kings are, when you get down to it." Wright leaned forward.   
  
"We're not all as big or as socially advanced as Ankh-Morpork, Your   
  
Grace. Some cities still need a man with a crown. That doesn't mean you   
  
can't do for Pseudopolis what Vetinari did for your own city."  
  
"I'm not that bright," said Vimes. "And I hate politics. First man   
  
calls me Royal Highness, I'll kick him in the stomach."  
  
"Unnecessary violence is also a common trait of kings," Wright pointed   
  
out. "You do really seem ideal for the job. The city's going to fall   
  
apart if someone doesn't do something soon, and Rater's fresh out of   
  
ideas. This one was mine."  
  
"I thought so. Rater's no keener on kings than I am, for all he works   
  
for one. Worked," Vimes corrected himself. "Why not abolish the   
  
monarchy? With a few dozen well-trained men and a good leader -- "  
  
" -- precisely, sir," Wright said, a little too smoothly.  
  
Vimes stared at him. "I won't do it. And I'm not arguing for the sake   
  
of hearing myself. Don't tell me you haven't got a few other letters to   
  
other lords in that hidden diplomatic pouch."  
  
"I haven't," Wright sighed. "I wish I had, now. I was sure you'd be   
  
pleased."  
  
"Just who exactly told you I -- " Vimes stopped. "Sybil. Of course."  
  
"She speaks so highly of you, sir. Intelligent, honest, even-  
  
handed -- "  
  
"She's my wife, Captain. The whole point of two people marrying is that   
  
they're too delusional about each other to do anything else."  
  
"That's terrible, sir, if you'll pardon the presumption."  
  
"Doesn't make it untrue."  
  
"So there's no hope, then."  
  
"Not of crowning me while I'm still breathing, no."  
  
"I don't suppose you'd appoint a Regent and name the Viscount -- "  
  
"Let's leave young Sam out of this, shall we? He'd be dead before he   
  
learned to walk. I'm common, Wright, but not stupid."  
  
"I find you to be neither, Your G -- Commander Vimes." Wright's face   
  
fell. "You were our last chance, I'm afraid."  
  
Vimes examined the letter again, disgustedly. "Gods help me, Captain.   
  
Sybil is right about some things. I'm not going to talk about this king   
  
business again, but I did offer Rater all the help he needed to   
  
stabilize the city. I'll send a squad of Watchmen back with your escort   
  
-- don't even try to tell me you and Colter came alone," he said, when   
  
Wright opened his mouth. "In the meantime, as long as you're   
  
here...we'll see what we can do about finding a suitably royal   
  
substitute in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
/He's not far wrong,/ Vimes thought, as the younger man goggled. /I   
  
really must be daft. But you can't force good sense on people who don't   
  
want to hear it.../  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Defender of the Crown  
  
ch. 3  
  
"It is the thing and the whole of the thing. Without the magic, there   
  
is no king. Just someone like you, unaccountably giving orders."  
  
"Someone called Vimes teaches /me/ about royalty?"  
  
-- The Fifth Elephant  
  
"Who's a good baby? Whosagoodboyden?"  
  
It was amazing, Sybil always thought, the effect small animals and   
  
children had on otherwise rough and hard-boiled Watch officers. Even   
  
Sam Vimes, the king -- er, the Duke, all right -- of cynical pessimism,   
  
had actually spent money on a fluffy toy ball for the old Watch   
  
mascot. He was spending a lot more on his son, who wasn't even old   
  
enough to understand what a toy was, let alone play with one. She   
  
dreaded what he'd do on Hogswatch.  
  
A dozen Watchmen were clustered around Carrot, who sat on a bench near   
  
the fireplace, holding young Sam Vimes the second in his enormous arms.   
  
She watched, serenely, as a dwarf with a beard down to his knees played   
  
peek-a-boo with her son. Most mothers, when faced with entrusting their   
  
child to a giant of a man in battle armour and a gang of axe-carrying   
  
dwarves, would panic; Sybil Ramkin was glad of the rest. Carrot was an   
  
exceptional babsitter.  
  
Even Mr. Colter had been drawn into the circle and pressed to a cup of   
  
cocoa by some of the younger constables, who were asking him about the   
  
Pseudopolis Watch. Sybil nodded her thanks as Angua settled into a   
  
chair next to her, presenting her with some thick, lemony Watch tea.  
  
"Who'd have guessed Carrot'd be good with children?" Angua asked,   
  
grinning. Sybil smiled back. "Where's Lord Vetinari gone?"  
  
"Oh, he had pressing business elsewhere," Sybil said, waving a hand   
  
vaguely. "Never a quiet moment, for Havelock. If I told Sam how alike   
  
the pair of them are, he'd probably arrange to have my head examined."  
  
"I think young Sam's been good for him. He almost always leaves by   
  
five, these days."  
  
"He doesn't always work Saturdays, either," Sybil agreed.   
  
Carrot looked up as the women laughed. It's always an unsettling sound,   
  
to a man.  
  
"Pardon Me, Lady Sybil," a voice boomed behind them. Dorfl towered into   
  
view. Nobody could tower like Dorfl. "I Would Like To Inquire After The   
  
Health Of Your Offspring."  
  
"Sam's very well, thank you, Dorfl," Sybil replied, thinking that she   
  
was possibly the only duchess ever to answer questions like this from a   
  
walking, thinking pile of clay. Dorfl tipped his helmet and moved on,   
  
joining the crowd around young Sam.  
  
"Should I be asking what the big meeting upstairs is about?" Angua   
  
continued. "Two Pseudopolis Watchmen, Carrot, Mister Vimes, Lord   
  
Vetinari and yourself -- I'm surprised someone didn't come to blows,   
  
sooner or later."  
  
"It was a close thing. I think I'd best let Sam tell it in his own   
  
time."  
  
Angua nodded. "Offered him the throne, have they?"  
  
Sybil had learned a lot from her husband. She didn't even frown.  
  
"Couple of the lads were talking about it in the locker room," Angua   
  
continued. "A Duke beats an Earl, and there aren't that many Dukes on   
  
the Disc. Almost none that have actually had experience leading   
  
anything more than a charity fundraiser committee. Mister Vimes knows   
  
how to lead armies. Plus he's...legitimate. If you don't know Vimes,   
  
you know Ramkin. It's just one of those things."  
  
"How come Sam hasn't made you a Captain, Angua?" Sybil asked.  
  
"Oh, in Colon's words, hofficerin' ain't for the likes of me. Don't   
  
worry, it's not as though anyone knows anything. It's all just rumor.   
  
Suppose Mister Vimes'll turn it down."  
  
"Yes, I think so." Sybil tried to imagine her husband in a crown.   
  
Whenever she got close, it turned into something very like his old,   
  
battered Watch helmet from when he was a Captain.   
  
Sybil had been born a Lady, and was delighted to become a Duchess, but   
  
she couldn't imagine herself as Queen, and not just because most of the   
  
really well-known queens weren't well-known for being well-liked. It   
  
was one thing to earn a position in society, as Sam had done, or to be   
  
born into the useless peerage as she was; it was another entirely to be   
  
given real ruling power because you were a more bloodthirsty bastard   
  
than the other man. Sybil knew from bloodthirsty. She was the first   
  
Ramkin in generations who hadn't managed to slaughter a good portion of   
  
some army or other by the time she was thirty.  
  
"Good for him," Angua said. "Pseudopolis is a bore. What'll the gallant   
  
Captain Wright do?"  
  
"Dickie will think of something," Sybil said calmly. "He always was a   
  
bit of a sport. His mother -- that'll be the Lady Deirdre Wright, my   
  
aunt -- wanted him to go into land management, but he likes the   
  
uniform."  
  
"Must run in families," Angua murmured. Sybil grinned.  
  
"Visit!" Vimes called, descending the stairs. Wright walked behind him,   
  
thoughtfully.  
  
"Out on patrol, sir!" someone shouted back. "Preaching to the masses   
  
from the book of Burleigh and Stronginthearm."  
  
There was general laughter. Vimes nodded.  
  
"Dorfl, you find him. I want the two of you, and Reg if he's around, up   
  
to Scoone Avenue in an hour or so. Angua, nip over to the University   
  
and talk to the Librarian, see if he's got any books on the peerage in   
  
Pseudopolis or Ankh-Morpork. Bring them up to the house." He returned   
  
her salute. "Off you go."  
  
"I suppose lunch is off, dear?" Sybil asked, with a resigned sigh.  
  
"No, but we'll have to be quick about it," her husband said. "You don't   
  
mind if Captain Wright joins us? Where's Sam?"  
  
"Here, sir," Carrot called. Vimes glanced over just in time to see Sam   
  
try to eat Carrot's badge. "Spirited lad, Mister Vimes."  
  
"Yes, I can't think where he gets it from," Sybil said brightly. "Here   
  
we go then, Carrot, thank you. Shall we? I'll have to think of   
  
somewhere to take Dickie to give him a real taste of Ankh-Morpork   
  
cooking..."  
  
"Alley out back of a chip shop would be favorite," Vimes said, but   
  
out of respect for his wife's enthusiasm, he didn't say it very loudly.  
  
***  
  
"Is It Like Clues, Then?" Dorfl asked, his thick ceramic hands holding   
  
a pile of books taken from the Ramkin family library.  
  
"Sort of, I think." Angua opened one of them. "We're looking for any   
  
relatives of the Pseudopolis royalty that might've shown up in   
  
Ankh-Morpork in the past few hundred years."  
  
"Or anyone in Ankh-Morpork who outranks a Duke," Vimes called, from   
  
behind a bookshelf. "Or any /mention/ of anything that might lead us to   
  
it."  
  
"I Defy The Monarchy. The Divine Rule Of Kings Is An Outmoded Belief   
  
System," Dorfl rumbled.  
  
"Yes, well, write a pamphlet and I'll pay for it to be printed myself,"   
  
Vimes said. "In the meantime, we have a day, at most, to find someone   
  
else to go king around in Pseudopolis until the city comes to its   
  
senses."  
  
"What if we don't find anything?" Reg Shoe, eternal optimist, asked. He   
  
was standing on Dorfl's shoulders, trying to reach a high shelf.  
  
"Then you get to lead the revolutionary charge into Pseudopolis, Reg.   
  
Might not be a bad idea anyway. People tend to respect a man who can   
  
take an arrow in the leg and only complain about ruined trousers."  
  
"That's very funny, Mister Vimes," said Reg dourly.  
  
"Yes, I'm known for my sense of humor. Everyone always says, 'There   
  
goes Sam Vimes, the bastard hasn't got one'."  
  
"He's cranky. He doesn't like being reminded that he's a nob," Angua   
  
said to Reg.  
  
"I heard that, Sergeant."  
  
"Find anything yet, Your Grace?"  
  
"Also very funny, Angua. We could send Carrot, you know."  
  
"Nobody's going to mistake Carrot for you, sir."  
  
"You're fired, Sergeant."  
  
"Is it always like this?" Wright asked. He was leafing through an index   
  
to the Ankh-Morpork Social Register.   
  
"No. Sometimes he shouts. Once in a while he throws things," Visit,   
  
already reading, answered absently. "What about where you come from?"  
  
"Oh, Commander Rater's a good enough sort. There's only about thirty of   
  
us. I had to hire on extra hands to come along to Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"Colter seems like a stand-up officer. Why didn't you bring him up to   
  
the library?" asked Angua.  
  
"Colter can't read," Wright said absently. "He's best at...well, if you   
  
have something you need done, and everyone says, oh, that can't be   
  
done, then you send Colter to do it. So I thought he'd be well suited   
  
getting to know how the Watch around here works. He's out walking   
  
beats and talking to people."  
  
Angua was impressed. Everyone in the AMCW could read well enough to get   
  
by and sign their name on the wages chitty. A Watchman who couldn't   
  
read must be awfully good at everything else.  
  
***  
  
The fire was low in the grate by the time Angua looked up and rubbed   
  
her eyes. "It's no good, sir," she said tiredly. "There's no way we're   
  
even going to get through it all."  
  
Vimes was buried in a dusty, heavy tome, a sandwich halfway to his   
  
mouth. Wilikins had brought a tray of them up, with an encouraging   
  
message from Lady Sybil, who was busy with Sam. He glanced at her.  
  
"I thought it might not be the best idea I'd ever had," he said with a   
  
sigh. "The only other options are to watch Pseudopolis crumble and hope   
  
for the best, or ride in ourselves and declare martial law. I /hate/   
  
politics. But I hate these damned breeding records more." He tapped the   
  
book. "How do you address the mother of a marquess, and what do you   
  
call the relative by marriage of a peer."  
  
"Well, me," Wright said slowly.  
  
"What d'you mean, you?" Vimes asked.  
  
"I'm the relative by marriage of a peer. Namely yourself. Colter asked   
  
it when we were sitting in your office. I mean, I'm a lord, or will be   
  
when dad dies, at any rate. But what am I to you? Is it in there?"  
  
Vimes raised his eyebrows. "Well, for starters, a royal pain in my   
  
arse. Otherwise..." he flipped a few pages over. "According to...oh,   
  
bloody hell. According to Ramtop common law, it makes you a poor sod   
  
who's got the right to freeload off me for life. Erm...in Pseudopolis,   
  
you'd be something called a Bastard Lord."  
  
"We get that from your side," Wright said amiably.   
  
"In Ankh-Morpork, there's a variation...congratulations, Mr. Wright.   
  
According to Ankh-Morpork law of descent, you're a Bastard Earl," said   
  
Vimes, glaring at Wright. "Welcome to the peerage, Captain."  
  
"But I'm not Morporkian!"  
  
"I don't think it matters. Sybil says you were born here. Makes you a   
  
Bastard Earl. You're married, aren't you?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"And kids?"  
  
"Five boys."  
  
"Bloody hell," Reg said.   
  
"Five boys and a wife on a Watch salary? You're a braver man than I   
  
am," Visit added. "Begging your pardon, Commander."  
  
Neither Wright nor Vimes seemed to be paying attention; they were   
  
watching each other warily.  
  
"I think we can wrap up for the day," the Commander said finally.   
  
"Thank you for your help, sergeants, corporals. Check in at the Yard   
  
before you sign out."  
  
Angua knew how to take a cue, and she smoothly kicked Reg in the shin   
  
before he could object. Dorfl, not one for differentiating between   
  
'suggestion' and 'order', was already helping Visit pile books neatly   
  
on the table.  
  
When they were gone, Wright waited for the explosion.   
  
"You put Rater up to it, all right," Vimes said. "You /knew/ that Old   
  
Stoneface Vimes couldn't possibly say yes. But he never ignores a   
  
fellow Watchman in trouble,does he?"  
  
"How did you -- "  
  
"You were too quiet when I mentioned leaving Pseudopolis to rot."  
  
Wright ducked his head. "I had thought..."  
  
"You thought the Watch could ride in and force the citizens to see   
  
sense? Adopt the Patricianship system of government?"  
  
"Perhaps. Or even an Ephebian democracy. I had a list of sensible city   
  
leaders who might -- "  
  
"Sensible city leaders tend to go round the twist when they get that   
  
much power, Wright."  
  
Wright nodded. "I've read the history of Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"Cheek! And now what do you think?"  
  
"Well...you are known, Your Grace, for very...unique solutions to   
  
various political problems. Sybil mentioned in her last Hogswatch   
  
letter that you had prevented a war by arresting, what, two entire   
  
armies? And then set them to playing football?"  
  
"Carrot did the football," Vimes mumbled.  
  
"Yes, and you're his superior. I thought, what a very unusual man you   
  
must be." Wright smiled, brightly. "I was certainly right, wasn't I?"  
  
"I ought to ding you upside the head again." The Commander sighed. "You   
  
think that Watchmen make good kings?"  
  
Wright, not for the first time in a very long, very frustrating day,   
  
stared at the Duke.   
  
"I have an idea," said Vimes. "It's a really terrible one. I'm going to   
  
hate it when I've thought it out. But it's the only one we've got..."  
  
***  
  
Most Watchmen in Ankh-Morpork were very firmly pedestrian. It was one   
  
of the reasons they were good Watchmen, because they walked the streets   
  
at eye level with the rest of the world. They didn't like horses,   
  
unless it came to betting on them. But in Pseudopolis, everyone rode,   
  
and an honour escort looked really smart on a horse. Vimes picked seven   
  
officers who knew the head from the hocks, and got a coach for himself,   
  
Sybil, and Sam. Wright didn't like it, but he didn't like anything   
  
about this plan, except its outcome.  
  
Vimes didn't like anything, /including/ the outcome, but it was, he'd   
  
decided, the only way.  
  
"I don't think I ought to leave the city, sir," Carrot said   
  
respectfully, as he checked the saddles on the Watchmens' horses.   
  
"Tighten that girth, Visit."  
  
"You're bringing the zealot?" Wright hissed.  
  
"He can ride," Vimes shrugged*.  
  
"With you gone," Carrot continued, "And the rumors going round -- "  
  
"You're coming, Carrot. Angua's more than due for a little   
  
responsibility," Vimes said firmly, in a tone that suggested that Lady   
  
Sybil'd had Words with him on the subject. "Aren't you, Sergeant?"  
  
"Whatever you say, sir," Angua answered, masking her smugness rather  
  
well.  
  
"I'm sure Sergeant Angua won't let you down, but -- "  
  
"That was an order I gave you, Carrot. I am already an unhappy camper,   
  
and I'm sure you don't want to be the one responsible for my first   
  
homicide of the day. Or its victim."   
  
"Yessir." Carrot saluted smartly. "I'll see to the horses, sir."  
  
"Good lad."  
  
Vimes turned back to the coach. Pseudopolis was closer than Uberwald,   
  
but still more than a day's ride. He'd clacksed Rater with a message   
  
that he hoped was just vague enough to keep people from out-and-out   
  
painting the coronation mugs with his name. MESSAGE RECEIVED WILL   
  
ARRIVE PSEUDOPOLIS THREE DAYS STOP REQUEST HOUSING SEVEN OFFICERS STOP   
  
CMDR AMCW.   
  
It was a good message. It said everything he wanted and nothing anyone   
  
could pin on him. He did wish he could see the expressions of everyone   
  
watching the Clacks towers for his reply. He imagined the look on the   
  
Baroness Von Uberwald's face would be priceless.  
  
You're a Watchman, Vimes, and the whole world is watching you, now...  
  
Ping, arriving at a run with his arms full of parcels, skidded to a   
  
stop in front of his Commander. "Sorry I'm late, sir! Had some   
  
difficulty finding the flags!"  
  
"Throw them on the roof of the coach and catch your breath on the hoof,   
  
Ping. Up you go on the..." Vimes fumbled. "The red one."  
  
"Roan," Wright coughed.   
  
***  
  
* While it was true that Corporal Visit had, in the past, ridden   
  
an ass during religious pageants, he had never before encountered   
  
actual riding gear. This was little deterrent. If you've ridden a   
  
donkey bareback, the Omnian saying goes, you've conquered a saddled   
  
horse. (Although a more literal translation sometimes reads "a painful   
  
malady of the bum"). 


	4. Chapter 4

Defender of the Crown  
  
ch. 4  
  
"What's this crown with a dagger through it?"  
  
"Oh, a traditional symbol, ah-ha. Indicates his role as defender of   
  
the crown."  
  
-- Feet of Clay  
  
The clacks had revolutionized news and the way it was told. Everyone   
  
knew that. But things could only move as fast as a horse, when you were   
  
talking international politics. People had to have time to get places.   
  
The messages from Rater, at regular intervals as they passed other   
  
clacks towers, included updates on the state of affairs in the troubled   
  
city of Pseudopolis. According to him, everyone was, essentially,  
  
waiting. Of course nobody would admit what they were waiting /for/...  
  
Colter, who rode ahead of the contingent -- far ahead -- was sending   
  
his own clacks messages, or at any rate, getting someone to send them   
  
for him. Wright accepted, dealt with, and replied to them with all the   
  
alacrity and briskness of the Patrician. It struck Vimes as odd, that   
  
this little solution hadn't come from the capable young Captain. He   
  
certainly thought crookedly enough for it.  
  
The constable returned to them the morning before they arrived in   
  
Pseudopolis. The Watchmen were camped on an open plain; Wilikins,   
  
traveling with Lady Sybil and clinging tenaciously to civilization, had   
  
erected a palatial tent for his employers, which the officers had been   
  
trying, for the third or fourth time, to disassemble in an orderly   
  
fashion. It looked as though they'd given up, for the moment, and were   
  
getting ready to ride into the city.   
  
"Good news and bad," Colter reported to Wright and Vimes, who were   
  
sitting around an early-morning fire, drinking harsh coffee from   
  
tin cups. "On one hand, the bunting's out. Someone's definetely going   
  
to get crowned soon."  
  
"But?" Wright prompted.  
  
"But they're expecting someone a bit more...kingly," Colter said   
  
hesitantly. "Beg yer pardon, Commander."  
  
"I take it as a compliment," Vimes said gravely.  
  
"And there are a couple of, um, contenders. Not outright, see, but if   
  
they don't like the look of things, someone's also going to get   
  
beheaded today." Colter looked nervous. Vimes didn't blame him.  
  
"Let's make sure they like the look of things," he said, trying to   
  
reassure the young officer. "Run along, Colter. Carrot'll have some   
  
things for you."  
  
"We're going to be toast," Wright said quietly. "When we pull this off,   
  
our heads are going to look really good on some silver platters."  
  
"Nonsense. We've got royalty on our side," said Vimes. Wright thought   
  
privately that they needed to invent a new word for the brand of humor   
  
the Commander employed. Sarcasm didn't seem to do it justice. Sarcavern,   
  
perhaps, or sarcanyon.  
  
Wright didn't like being out of control, and he had found himself   
  
following, rather than leading, since he'd been nicked by two corporals   
  
in Ankh-Morpork. It was good strategy, he'd thought, sending the   
  
lower-ranking officers to grab him, as if he wasn't worth Sam Vimes'   
  
time. It reminded Wright that he still had lessons to learn.  
  
"Right then." Vimes looked around, and turned to face the Ankh-Morpork   
  
officers. "Let's show these Pseudopolis lads what Ankh-Morpork coppers   
  
can do."  
  
"Erm...find a nice dry place to have a smoke?" Ping asked. "Or did you   
  
mean mump a free beer from the Bunch of Grapes?"  
  
"No, Ping." Vimes sighed. "Carrot?"  
  
"Just coming, sir," Carrot answered, leading two horses. He had a pair   
  
of long, sturdy sticks in one hand, each wrapped in cloth. He passed   
  
one to Colter, who unfurled it to reveal the Pseudopolis flag. He   
  
handed the reins of one of the horses to Vimes, and stuck the other   
  
flag in a loop on his own saddle.   
  
***  
  
A horse looks a lot taller than normal, when you're trying to get onto   
  
its back. Say what you like about camels, but at least they sit down   
  
for their passengers.  
  
***  
  
"Don't you look smart!" Sybil exclaimed, as the Watch rode past the   
  
coach. Vimes, who'd forgotten how uncomfortable a saddle could be, gave   
  
her a cheerful grimace. Behind him, six of the seven Ankh-Morpork   
  
officers were managing to stay in what, if you were drunk, could be   
  
considered a double-line. For a given value of 'line'.  
  
The Pseudopolis lads watched, discussed it, and finally broke rank.   
  
Each Pseudopolis horse paired up with an Ankh-Morpork horse; somehow   
  
they all managed to get into a formation behind the coach.   
  
Carrot and Colter, now proudly flying the Ankh-Morkork and Pseudopolis   
  
flags, rode in front, flanking Vimes and Wright. His Grace was   
  
reluctantly wearing his dress armour. Wright's own armour shone. They   
  
looked like the biggest idiots who ever rode a horse, in Vimes' opinion.  
  
"Let's go make a king," Vimes sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this."  
  
***  
  
It was everything that they'd dreaded, and more. Samuel Vimes, who   
  
hated the monarchy with a devoutness approaching religion, had never   
  
seen so much bunting in his entire life.  
  
"Told you," Colter whispered.  
  
"Smile, Colter," Wright whispered back.   
  
People were lining the streets to see the Duke of Ankh, presumably the   
  
next King of Pseudopolis, and his honour guard. Carrot smiled and waved.   
  
Wright, who had to lead them to the palace, looked straight ahead.   
  
Vimes, who had to make sure his horse didn't stop to eat geraniums out   
  
of peoples' gardens, also looked straight ahead.   
  
We probably look more royal than Carrot does, Vimes thought. And he's   
  
about as royal as you get.  
  
But that was why he'd brought the lad. As Colon never failed to point out,   
  
Carrot had Krisma. Bags of it. Plus he had a punch like a troll and a very   
  
sharp sword, which are important aspects of anyone attempting to perpetrate   
  
a coup.  
  
Several lean barbarians, on seeing the Duke, his cousin, his honour guard,   
  
and Carrot, slunk away towards the city gates. Several dapper lords, mostly   
  
local Pseudopolis stock, saw the Duke's sharp sword and several scars, and   
  
decided this king business was beneath them.   
  
Some local priest or other stood on the steps of what must be the palace,   
  
surrounded by the sort of people Vimes knew, in his bones, had signed that   
  
stupid letter Wright had delivered. Rater was one of them.  
  
"Halt!" Wright commanded. The horses obeyed, more or less.  
  
"Dismount!" Carrot shouted. Sixteen pairs of boots hit the street. The   
  
door of the coach opened, and Sybil stepped out, holding Sam. The crowds   
  
were thick, here; they murmured excitedly.  
  
"Your Grace." The priest gave him a pious smile. "I would like to welcome   
  
you to Pseudopolis."  
  
"Thank you," Vimes said curtly, as Visit led his and Wright's horses   
  
away. "This is my wife, the Duchess of Ankh, and my son, the Viscount."   
  
Sybil curtsied low. Nobody could pull off a classy entrance like Sybil.   
  
"Captain of the City Watch, Carrot Ironfoundersson; my cousin, Dickson   
  
Wright, Bastard Earl of Ankh, and his aide, Constable Michael Colter."   
  
Wright and Colter bowed stiffly.  
  
He knew that, behind him, several of the 'honour guard' were trying to   
  
keep a straight face. So was he, if it came to that.   
  
"Er...of course. We welcome your family with open arms," the priest   
  
said, all evidence pointing to the contrary.  
  
"I understand you're in need of a king," Vimes continued.  
  
"Yes, your Grace -- "  
  
"When is the coronation?"  
  
The priest was taken aback. This was not according to the script. "Ah.   
  
Yes. We have been in preparation since the regrettable death of the   
  
king's son -- "  
  
"Good! We'll do it now, get it over with, and I can get my family   
  
settled in."  
  
"Yes, of course, your Grace," the priest said smoothly. The rest of   
  
what Vimes had come to think of as the Monarchy Election Board were   
  
exchanging nervous glances. /You wanted a strong leader/, Vimes   
  
thought. /Shouldn't have let young Wright sell you on the idea, should   
  
you? Too late now.../  
  
The doors of the palace opened, and people flooded in, carefully   
  
forming an island of empty space around the future king. Vimes felt   
  
Ping touch his elbow.  
  
"Take Sybil and Sam and get them out of the city," he said, without   
  
looking around. "I don't want my wife and son within five miles of this   
  
place when everything goes pear-shaped."  
  
"Moving as fast as we can, sir," Ping replied, and vanished along with  
  
Colter.   
  
"Now we walk slowly," Vimes said to Wright and Carrot, when the crowds   
  
finally began to thin out. The palace was filled to capacity. They   
  
moved through it, side-by-side, hands on swords. "You give them time to   
  
see us three together. Colter speak to the priest?"  
  
"Didn't need to. He's just about blind."  
  
"I suppose that's best. You think everyone heard the introductions?"  
  
"Colter's been talking to people since yesterday morning."  
  
"Don't suppose I could poach him from you?"  
  
"Not a chance. Sir."  
  
Vimes, with the light-headedness of those about to die, realized that   
  
they were /proceeding/ down the long aisle towards the throne of   
  
Pseudopolis. A hastily-retrieved crown sat slightly askew on one of the   
  
throne's cushions. A man so old he could pass for a zombie was standing   
  
next to it.  
  
"Last chance to back out," Colter said, out of the corner of his mouth.   
  
"Sure you don't want to rule?"  
  
"I have never," said Vimes distantly, "been more sure of anything in my   
  
life."  
  
"The Gods bless you and keep you, your highness," the old man mumbled.   
  
By his costume, Vimes guessed he was the same religion as the young   
  
priest. "We are not long on ceremony in Pseudopolis. We welcome our new   
  
ruler and wish him well."  
  
"Your king thanks you," Vimes said loudly.   
  
"If you would be seated, your highness..." the priest intoned, picking   
  
up the crown.   
  
only those closest could actually see /which/ man sat down, but they   
  
weren't slow on the uptake.   
  
The first protests hit their ears just as the crown touched Dickson   
  
Wright's bared head.  
  
"Behold the new king of Pseudopolis!" the priest quavered. "Long live   
  
the king!"  
  
Half the audience cheered; the other half shouted in anger.  
  
This was where it got dicey. Vimes drew his sword, just as Carrot did.   
  
Damned if he was going to repeat what the priest said, as Carrot was   
  
doing, however.  
  
The crowd fell silent at the combination of two drawn swords and the   
  
quiet, all-knowing smile of the man on the throne.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," said a soft, gentle voice. Colter, who   
  
apparently could be everywhere at once, emerged from a side-hallway.   
  
"May I present to you his royal highness, King Dickson the First, and   
  
the defender of the crown, Duke Samuel Vimes."  
  
Defender of the bloody crown, Vimes thought. That just about takes the   
  
royal cake.  
  
***  
  
"You tricked us!"  
  
The Monarchy Election board were seated in front of Vimes, who stood,   
  
arms crossed, in front of Wright, in the King's Chambers. Carrot stood   
  
next to him. It was very hard to yell at Carrot, so they were yelling   
  
at Vimes. It was not much easier.  
  
"You wanted a king," Vimes said mildly.   
  
"We wanted you!"  
  
"But you've got a king, now. I should think that's what counts. I went   
  
to a lot of trouble to get you one."  
  
"Through guile and deception!" a lower-order lord snapped.  
  
"Yes, those are habits of mine," sighed Vimes. "Carrot, when I'm done   
  
here, make a note. Must work on reducing amount of guile I practice.   
  
Bad for the digestion."  
  
"Noted, sir," Carrot said calmly. He didn't have sword-in-hand as they   
  
had done at the coronation. He didn't need it. The overtones of   
  
weaponry in the room were quite clear. We are armed, said the guards'   
  
stance, and you are not.  
  
"We did not send emissaries to Ankh-Morpork for you to put some   
  
insolent young upstart on the throne!" another man yelled.   
  
Commander Rater, Vimes noticed, was keeping silent. He was a good man,  
  
by all accounts, and was probably more proud of his protege's   
  
appointment to royalty than he was afraid of any royal repercussions.  
  
Probably.  
  
"He is the Bastard Earl of Ankh," Vimes continued, not quite believing  
  
what he said. "Kin to the man you wanted for king." He glanced at   
  
Wright, and continued. "I'd be a bit cautious about who I called   
  
insolent, if I were you."  
  
"I..." the man's face drained of colour. "We were not consulted in this   
  
matter!"  
  
"I didn't think a king needed to consult about a crowning," Vimes   
  
growled. "I thought he came and bloody fought for the crown, winner take  
  
all. And I'm /sure/ the good people of Pseudopolis don't want to know   
  
that their leaders didn't consult /them/ before offering some old sod in   
  
Ankh-Morpork the throne, when they had their very own Earl around." He   
  
held up the letter they'd sent him. The more thoughtful members of the   
  
Board were already smiling ingratiatingly at the king, who was distinctly   
  
not smiling back.  
  
"Tell me, Captain Carrot, how are my people taking the news of my   
  
coronation?" asked King Dickson I, royally.  
  
"I'm told there's dancing. And quite a bit of drinking. Also someone's   
  
selling coronation mugs."  
  
"With my name on them?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, that practically makes it irrefutable. Wouldn't you say, Tanner?"  
  
The man who'd called him an insolent young upstart turned a shade   
  
paler, if that were possible. "I...look, it's only crockery!" he said   
  
to his companions, who were now giving him the sort of wide berth   
  
generally associated with someone shouting that the gods don't exist on   
  
top of a tall hill, in a thunderstorm. "Are we going to let a blind   
  
priest and a painted mug establish rule in this town?"  
  
"Well, if those aren't enough..." Vimes put his hand, very casually, on   
  
his sword-hilt.   
  
"I think, begging your pardon, Your Grace, that His Highness, King   
  
Dickson, has an excellent point." The smooth-talking young priest   
  
again. "If the people approve of him, how can we say nay?"  
  
"He's got a wife, and a couple of boys to carry on the crown. /And/ no   
  
apparent history of mental instability. A good bargain, if you like   
  
that kind of thing," said Vimes. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen -- and   
  
ladies," he said, nodding to a few senior Seamstresses in the back of   
  
the room, "I promised my wife some sight-seeing. Good day."  
  
He touched his helmet, bowed, and walked out. Behind him, there was the  
  
sound of several people exhaling nervously.  
  
"Now," came Wright's voice from the King's Chambers, "I believe I have   
  
some ruling to do. Let's get a little law around the place, shall we?"  
  
"You think he'll be a good king?" Carrot asked, following his Commander  
  
down the hallway. Their boots echoed on the stone floor.   
  
"He'll be a damn sight better than I would."  
  
"Oh, I don't know about that, sir," Carrot replied, his big honest   
  
forehead wrinkling.   
  
"I do, Carrot. Wright knows how to play the games. I just want to clean  
  
up the world. Worst kind of man to rule." Vimes turned out at the   
  
courtyard, stepping into the light. "I think he'll do all right. But   
  
then, what do I know? Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes was buried in five   
  
graves, after only six months. And he wasn't even king."  
  
"You're not him, though, sir."  
  
Vimes grinned and lit a cigar. "No, you're right there. Come on,   
  
Carrot, they're waiting for us."  
  
***  
  
King Dickson only found the letter, two weeks after the coronation,   
  
because he wanted to get the dents hammered out of his armour, for   
  
occasions when he might need it. The courier's pouch, which he'd worn   
  
strapped to his breastplate when he wasn't in plainclothes, seemed too   
  
thick to be empty. He unfolded the dingy sheet of paper, revealing Sam   
  
Vimes' scrawling curly handwriting. It was dated the day the   
  
Ankh-Morpork contingent had left Pseudopolis.  
  
"Dickson --   
  
Crowns are heavy things. Be careful not to wear it too often. All the   
  
weight crushes the brain.   
  
If you have to be a king, as Carrot says, best be a good king. Maybe   
  
you can outlaw the tendency of Pseudopolis folk to bend at the knees,   
  
in a few decades. Remember that you're an officer of the Watch and   
  
have a reputation to uphold.  
  
Be told. I have twenty years on you and I know what I'm talking about.   
  
If I hear about any foolishness in Pseudopolis, rest assured, you're   
  
not too royal to feel the flat of my sword.   
  
Sam'l Vimes, Cmdr, AMCW  
  
PS: Sybil sends her love."  
  
Wright's wife, Her Royal Highness Queen Maggie, couldn't get him to   
  
stop laughing for a full ten minutes.  
  
END 


End file.
